


Feed the flames with it

by Sleepless_Malice



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Seduction, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, Ugly Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 11:05:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8748106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: The woolen sweater is indeed an ugly thing. Fir green, already slightly bleached from too many washings (something Bard says he’s not responsible for), with accents of bright red snowflakes ripping at the hems. If that were all, Bard perhaps could tolerate the ugly thing. It isn’t. On its front sits the true insult to his eyes. Two elk, snow-white with angry red noses (and red buttocks as Bard never fails to stress) are embroidered there, one standing on all fours whilst the other mounts it from behind.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheMirkyKing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMirkyKing/gifts).



> written for the Xmas prompt on tumblr: 'ugly sweaters' + Barduil

**Feed the flames with it**

*

When Bard returns to his mansion in Dale, darkness already tints the world in shadows. Wild snowflakes swirl around him as he walks, catching themselves in his scarf, in his hair, much to his dismay even in his eyebrows. It’s bitterly cold outside, with icy wind from the north howling through the valley, and all Bard wishes for is a calm evening with a glass of wine in front of the fireplace. He much hopes that Thranduil has no other plans for the night, because, sometimes, the Elf comes up with the most ridiculous ideas. Rides at night to some distant hot springs, climbing mountain peaks under moonlit skies are the less ridiculous ones. Of the others, Bard doesn’t dare to think right now.

The sight of Thranduil spread across their couch, a book on his laps and, naturally, a glass of crimson wine nearby, is the first sight that greets him. However, it aren’t the Elf’s glazed eyes that catch Bard’s attention, it’s something else entirely.

The shake of his head sends the snowflakes flying. “I thought you fed the flames with it last year,” says Bard, rubbing his hands together to get rid of the cold immobilizing his hands and fingers, before he steps towards where Thranduil lies. Still clad in his thick woolen coat, with snowflakes crowning his hair he bents down, so close that the Elf must feel the cold radiating from him. “This is the ugliest sweater I have ever seen, and oddly, it gets uglier with every year.” The words are murmured against Thranduil’s ear just before Bard’s cold lips wander down to kiss his neck. He doesn’t stop to nibble, not even when Thranduil complains about the freezing touch.

“Bard!” says Thranduil in exaggerated, not entirely earnest, admonishment when at last Bard lets go of his skin. “This sweater is a most precious heirloom, a gift from Lord Celeborn, and therefore it must be treasured.” Languidly, like a giant cat, he stretches against the cushions, watching Bard discard his scarf and cloak.

Bard snorts in disdain. “I always knew Celeborn has a bad taste, with the exception of women perhaps (the question of how on Arda he managed to seduce the wife of his, remains unsaid). That it is _THAT_ bad, however, I never knew.”

The woolen sweater is indeed an ugly thing. Fir green, already slightly bleached from too many washings (something Bard says he’s not responsible for), with accents of bright red snowflakes ripping at the hems. If that were all, Bard perhaps could tolerate the ugly thing. It isn’t. On its front sits the true insult to his eyes. Two elk, snow-white with angry red noses (and red buttocks as Bard never fails to stress) are embroidered there, one standing on all fours whilst the other mounts it from behind, stupid expressions on the faces. Why Thranduil, who is so famous for his delicate taste, would wear such a horrible thing, will always remain a mystery to Bard.

Instead of paying the Elf too much attention, Bard throws log after log into the dancing flames.  “What are you doing?” asks Thranduil, who now sits upright with crossed legs, sipping at his wine.

It’s obvious what he does. The why, however, obviously isn’t to Thranduil, and therefore Bard begins to explain with a sly grin. “Heating the house that you might get too warm to keep wearing this ugly thing. I doubt you will take it off, even when I bid you to.” During the pause that stretches, with Thranduil feeling not inclined to answer, Bard sits down beside him. Almost immediately, Thranduil dips his head towards Bard’s mouth.

“Indeed I will not,” states Thranduil with his infamous arrogance, his teeth scraping on Bard’s scratchy chin.  

Bard sighs, a noise not to be solely blamed on the Elf’s arrogant remark. “Why isn’t this a surprise?” he mutters with hitching breath. The talents of Thranduil’s lips are legendary, the touch exquisite. All of a sudden it is him who feels his skin burning, whilst the Elf seems to be indifferent to the touch.

_Damn being._

Delicate fingers wrap into Bard’s hair, as Thranduil whispers against Bard’s mouth, pulling him close, and closer still. “Why don’t you do it yourself when you are so bothered by it?” A mischievous smirk begins to form on the Elf’s lips just before he seals Bard’s in a demanding kiss.

Somehow, Bard manages to wrestle free of Thranduil’s hold, with the Elf watching him with not all too innocent interest. “Despite your fair looks, and being king, you are a horrible being!” With a laugh he shoves Thranduil into the cushions, a little bit rougher than originally he intended to.

The Elf, however, doesn’t mind.

In fact, Thranduil _never_ minds when Bard’s rough side shows itself.

“Oh?” interrupts Thranduil, delight flickering in his blue eyes. “You still think me pretty?”

It is then when one of the cushions lands right in Thranduil’s face. “No!” Bard exclaims, trying to sound sincere when he isn’t at the slightest. “Not whilst you are wearing this thing.”

In silent invitation, Thranduil lifts his arms over his head. “Then take it off me,” he challenges.

Still, even after all the years of their relationship, the proud king of the Woodland Realm is an enigma to Bard, and when he thinks he knows all of his tricks, is immune to his bewitching nature, he realizes that he’s not. Today is no exception, he has lost already. “That was your intention all along, don’t even try to deny it,” mutters Bard, anticipation ringing in his voice.

“Never,” laughs Thranduil.

With a smile matching Thranduil’s own Bard leans in, bringing his fingers to the hem of the sweater where snowflakes dance an idle dance. “Of course it was; and that is why you are not even wearing anything underneath.”

For once, Thranduil remains eerily silent, reveling in the softness of the touch. Bard’s still cold fingers leave a trail of gooseflesh on his bare chest, and when they brush against his nipples, a moan disrupts the silence. The most beautiful of sounds, muses Bard, repeating the caress with his lips so that more moans shall follow.

Eventually, the sweater falls from Bard’s hands carelessly on the floor, although right now he couldn’t care less which part of clothing is removed from his Elf’s fair skin. Naturally, Thranduil has a different opinion. “Better?” he asks.

“Much better,” states Bard with a smirk, being obscenely splayed across Thranduil’s body. “Even though you are still wearing too much for my liking.”

*

**Author's Note:**

> I am on tumblr, feel free to say hello over there: [feanope](http://www.feanope.tumblr.com)


End file.
